According to the Catholic Church, a child enters the age of reason at age seven. They now know right from wrong, are aware of what they do, and know what they do. Therefore, what better time to introduce the Sacrament of Reconciliation.
If that age is correct, and I have no reason to doubt it in any way, then I have been tilling at changing my mother for the past forty five years. Or at least I have been aware of this for forty five years.
I have quite the Quixotic challenge here. She refuses to change, I refuse to leave her alone. And so the dance goes on.
Allow me to elaborate. Today, for example, we were going to get some food for dinner. Why? Because mom was tired of the food we had. I jumped on my trusty but dilapidated steed and challenged the windmill.
We have plenty of food at home. Its silly to buy more when we have so much. (They had to take out the vegetable drawer from the fridge so they could add more food)
But I am tired of that food.
I read into that statement . . . “But I want you to have something else to eat. I know you like chicken strips. Let’s get some.”
I think I found the mistake. I am trying to interpret her statements. Give me some credit here, I have only been doing THAT for about oh . . . forty five years. I am a lousy interpreter, in case you were wondering.
A short side track here . . . I’ve been battling a sore throat and cough all day. OK, back to the game.
I bravely stood my ground and said that I make food on Sundays that I eat the rest of the week. Being single I can do that. Well, I have to do that. Hard to cook for one me.
The windmill responded by throwing a bag of potato chips onto the cart and saying that “The salt is good for your sore throat.”
Nice one mom. Nice one.
I made up my mind then. I would go and buy me a nice bottle of whiskey and make a hot toddy for my throat tonight. Better tasting that potato chips.
Its hard to change an eighty one year old’s mind. Specially when they think you are making such a huge sacrifice by merely showing up. Between you, me and Sancho Panza here . . . its not. I love riding the train and I look forward to getting away. Maybe not for this long, but I do.
I don’t know if it is a sacrifice. I don’t see it as such. To me a sacrifice is hard, difficult, tough . . . something like a Herculean task.
Yeah, like changing my mother’s mind.
Sacrifice to me is what I will be doing when I get back to the ATX. I am changing my whole diet. Going vegetarian for about two weeks and then adding WAY more veggies and fruits into my diet.
That’s a sacrifice. A needed and possible sacrifice.
But a sacrifice.
On a rather interesting note, my windmill just came to check to see if I had fallen asleep with the lights on.
What’s the big deal?
Its not good for you.
Like her falling asleep on the couch in the living room with the TV on is good for her.
See what I deal with? See my task? See my windmill?
I also see the fact that I have been tending at this windmill for quite a while now.
Dad’s another story.
He sleeps.
A lot.
Today I caught him waking up and saying mom’s nickname for him . . . “Manolín.”
I don’t know what to do about him.
He does laundry but never cleans the lint catcher. It was like padding by the time I took it out. You could have used it in clothing.
He sits next to me while I am checking out my Facebook admiring the use of my fingers when I click on this or that.
He manages to press the wrong button on their computer and away goes all the information in the computer. All of mom’s work, all the emails, email accounts, etc.
Gone. With the wind. With the windmill.
He tried to read the book I gave him and he seems to be able to do so. I tell him he needs new glasses. He knows it. That’s about the extent of it.
He just sits and watches. Doesn’t do a thing.
He doesn’t say anything to mom.
He just allows her to go through all she has to go through.
He just lets her be.
Wow.
I have a pretty wise dad.
